


Roll Over Blüdhaven

by anonymousbadgermole



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU, DCU (Comics), Nightwing (Comics), Young Justice (Cartoon)
Genre: Dick Grayson-centric, Gen, Homophobia, I love this man and I will save him from this heinous profession, Police Officer Dick Grayson, Racism, Sexism, What Did You Expect, and I'm anxious, but not for long, it's a story about cops, this is my first fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-01
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:35:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26740741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anonymousbadgermole/pseuds/anonymousbadgermole
Summary: Dick Grayson’s career on the force was short-lived.Or: five times Dick Grayson attempted to challenge ACAB and the one time he gave up trying.**Triggering topics (mostly interactions with cops). Please keep yourself safe!
Comments: 41
Kudos: 213





	1. Speed Trap

**Author's Note:**

> Title a play on Chuck Berry's 1956 song "Roll Over Beethoven."

“Twenty-four.”

It wasn’t quite what Dick had expected, this job.

“Close. That one was twenty-three.”

He’d known better than to expect anything exciting in the first few years of an entry level job. But sitting in the passenger seat of a squad car, reading off the recorded miles per hour of every car that passed to his training officer, Officer Blake--who was not as good at guessing as he thought he was--was beyond dull. It was excruciating.

“Knew it, rookie, knew it. It’s when they see us, you know. Slow down just a tick or two below the limit until we’re out of sight. Wily bastards. Maybe we should back up so the bush covers us better.”

Of all the on-the-job trainings he’d suffered through the last two weeks, the speed trap was the worst. They were set up in a little residential area in the east part of the city, parked strategically behind an overgrown bush so they could see the road, but drivers wouldn’t see them until the squad car recorded their speed. It reminded Dick of cold winter night stake outs with Bruce, back when he’d had calculus homework and an essay waiting back at the manor for after the bad guys finally decided to show up and get their butts kicked. At least this was less cold. But the company was equally atrocious. Dick would rather be strolling the city checking parking meters.

“What the hell is that? Twenty?”

Dick eyed the little gray sedan trundling toward them, then flicked his gaze to the radar as it passed. “Eighteen.”

Officer Blake chortled through a mouthful of goldfish. “That’s a fuckin’ old lady, that is.”

Dick pressed his lips together and kept his eyes straight. Tim had just started driving lessons, and though the kid had done 90 through Gotham on a motorbike, he was adorably cautious behind the wheel. Dick jabbed Jason in the stomach every time he tried to make fun of Timmy’s “grandma driving,” because it made Dick’s heart sail to think of the conscientious young man his younger brother was growing into.

The white SUV that drove by next was moving at a decent clip, making Officer Blake shoot upright in the driver seat, spilling crackers down his front. “Whoa, whoa, we got one!” He flicked on the siren.

“Hang on, they’re only going twenty-nine.”

“Yeah, and the limit’s twenty- _five_.”

Dick grabbed the armrests as Blake tore out of the parking lot, the squad car lurching to a speed much faster than twenty-nine before catching the SUV.

“Ah, fuck,” declared Blake, as the vehicle eased into the shoulder. “He pulled over.”

Dick frowned. “Aren’t they supposed to pull over?”

“Yah, but it’s way more fun when they don’t. Get a good chase in.” Officer Blake undid his seatbelt and slapped the steering wheel. “Welp. Watch and learn, rookie.” He brushed a goldfish off his shirt and straightened his shoulders before exiting the car.

Dick watched out the windshield as Blake conducted the stop, one hand never far from the gun at his hip. He returned to the squad car waving his notepad with a grin.

“Hope you were taking notes, Grayson.”

The afternoon wore on at a snail’s pace. Officer Blake was pleased with the number of stops, though most of the drivers they pulled over were moving, in Dick’s opinion, at a very reasonable clip. He was certainly feeling like a bit of a hypocrite for spending his teenage years pushing Bruce to drive the batmobile at breakneck speeds.

But it was a clear violation, a good 50mph traveler, when Blake finally turned to Dick to say “All right, rookie. You take this one.”

Dick was elated to unfold from the passenger seat. He resisted the urge to stretch his legs before walking to the stopped car, squinting into the setting sun. Reaching the driver, he rapped gently on the window. It was rolled down to reveal a young woman with dark skin, hands clenched into fists on her thighs.

“Hi,” Dick said, alarmed to find his conversational skills were deserting him. This situation was not at all like approaching a donor at a gala. But for lack of more tactful follow up, he went with: “How are you?”

The woman darted her eyes toward him, running up and down his uniform, probably guessing at the obvious lack of experience. She returned her gaze to the steering wheel. “Considerably worse than a minute ago.”

“Uh, heh, yeah.” Dick scratched the back of his neck. As Nightwing, he was more than used to dealing with people who violated the law. But those were traffickers, mafia dons, mass murderers. This was...well, she looked about Dick’s age. Probably on the way home from work. Since starting with the BPD, Dick definitely knew the relief that hit with the end of the workday. He probably rushed home most days, too. “Well. I’m Officer Grayson-”

“Grayson. Cut the chit chat.” Blake leaned out the window and banged on the side of the car, evidently looking to speed things along. The woman looked up at Dick expectantly.

He swallowed the awkwardness. “Can I see your license and registration?”

“Sure,” said the woman, but she didn’t move. Her eyes watched Dick’s hands where they hung at his sides.

 _Oh_. Remembering the way Blake’s hands tended to hover over his firearms, Dick took a step backward and brought his hands up, clasping them awkwardly at his chest. The woman’s eyes lingered a moment more, narrowed. Then she leaned into the passenger side of the car to retrieve her papers from the glove compartment.

Dick chattered while he took down her information, as was his instinct in any uncomfortable situation. “Mari, huh? What a cool name. My mom went by Mary.” He shook his head. This was not a social call. “Y’know, there are kids that live around here. Probably best if you drive a little slower in the future.”

Mari said nothing to Dick’s rambling, staring at her hands in her lap.

Dick ripped the ticket off his pad and handed it through the window. “You can pay this online, or in the mail. Or in person, if you want to get your steps in.” Dick folded his pad away, looking at Mari expectantly. She didn’t laugh. She sat and stared at the ticket in her hands. Dick felt a rush of sympathy. He glanced back at Officer Blake to make sure he was out of earshot. “Or, between you and me, you can go challenge these things in court. It’s actually pretty easy to win.”

Mari nodded, mechanical. Dick shuffled his feet. “Okay." There was no graceful exit from a conversation like this. "Well, have a good rest of your day.” He turned to head back to the squad car, sighing internally at the imminent return to being trapped in a metal box with Blake.

“You should quit.”

Dick paused in his tracks. He glanced at Blake, who had apparently moved on to the bag of pretzels. Dick backtracked half a step to look quizzically at Mari. Meeting his eyes for the first time, she gazed back, calm and firm, clearly not going to repeat her advice.

Dick walked back to Blake’s car, frowning.

“How’d it go?” greeted his partner as he shoved the pretzel bag between the seats. “Did she try crying?”

***

The next day was desk duty, and the clock had been stuck at 10:19am for what must have been half an hour while Joey, the training officer, explained how to file folders alphabetically. Dick was not listening. He was trying to convince himself that if he stared long enough at the minute hand, he could make it jump ever so slightly forward. Maybe if he worked up to it he could make it lunchtime.

A cluster of officers marched raucous through the station door, breaking off Dick’s telekinesis attempt and Joey’s droning. In the middle of the group was Mari, handcuffed and being led by the arm by an officer.

“Ay, there he is!” laughed one of the band, pointing at Dick.

Dick got to his feet. “What’s going on?”

Officer Blake broke from the group to clap him on the shoulder. “Not a bad catch for your first time out, Grayson.”

Brow furrowing, Dick stepped away from Blake. “I gave her a speeding ticket, that’s all.”

“Yeah, which happened to be her fifth violation this year. So we searched the car and found this.” Blake wiggled a ziploc containing a couple grams of marijuana. “Enough for six months to a year.” He sounded jubilant.

A tightness crept up Dick’s throat. He had been protecting the neighborhood kids. That’s what- no, it wasn’t supposed to be anything more than that. He steadied himself on the nearest desk, tuning out the rest of Blake’s congratulations.

Dick met Mari’s eyes as she was walked past, resignation and resentment darkening her expression. She looked away.

Blake threw an arm around Dick’s shoulders and ruffled his hair. Dick didn’t react.

He felt hollow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All I’m saying is, no way Officer “I killed Blockbuster” Grayson doesn’t blame himself for inadvertently ruining the lives of the people he apprehends.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading!!! Please have the loveliest of days.


	2. Donuts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's a complicated thing, Dick's trying to do. And his coworkers certainly don't make it easier.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: sexism, homophobia, racism, swearing
> 
> I was hesitant to use an Italian-sounding name for Blüdhaven’s organized crime scene, but then I looked it up and apparently the Italian mob is still very much a thing in the northeastern US. One of the acting "bosses" of the Five Families was murdered just last year! Fun fact!

Earlier that day, Dick had been staring at these faces on his computer screen over his morning bowl of Lucky Charms. A month on the job had proven woefully inadequate to pin down anything concrete about BPD contacts with the Blüdhaven mob - not for lack of information, but because there was _so much_. The organized crime scene was an open secret around the city. They weren't exactly careful about concealing their movements or encrypting their data. Well, not with any encryption sophisticated enough to withstand Dick's software. It was just taking ages to sort through it all, trying to pick out which avenues were worth pursuing, which might lead to actual evidence and in turn a shot at prosecution. But he had made a few connections to specific officers so far, including the four comprising this Tuesday's lunch dates:

There were the two buzzcut young recruits, Kyle and Ronnie. Joined the BPD a few years back. Didn’t wait long to jump on the Moretti family paycheck, if their frequent ski resort weekend getaways were anything to go by.

Hank Herzog: an older man, probably 50, who liked to roll his eyes and pretend he was battle-scarred and therefore the keeper of ultimate wisdom. Dick wondered if Hank’s mafia ties weren’t familial, since he seemed to keep himself out of the uglier incidents, but had appeared in more than one Moretti Christmas party picture.

And Jefferson Blake. It had taken only a few weeks for Dick to figure Blake was as bad a cop as he was driving instructor. He had a hunch Blake was connected to nearly every mob-related killing Dick had dug up from the last seven or so years. But he couldn’t _prove_ it.

Yet.

So now, these faces were seated around him at a picnic table in the parking lot of their local coffee shop: Kyle and Ronnie taking selfies to send to their girlfriends, Blake dumping sugar in his coffee, Hank grousing to Dick about the new-fangled, unnecessary, "gonna get hacked by them Chinese" electronic timesheets in use at the station. And Dick was trying to strike a fine line between personable and professional, suppressing the mighty urge to tell Hank he was not old enough to not have heard of excel.

It's as they say: keep your friends close and your enemies...as close as you can without punching them in the mouth.

"So, what did everyone get up to this weekend?" Dick slid into a space in the conversation while Hank took on a particularly ambitious bite of donut.

Dick figured the lunch invitations would dry up once he started handing the police chief fingerprint evidence of the group's mafia involvement, so he wanted to create information-gathering opportunities while he could. Actually, Dick wouldn’t mind when those invitations did stop coming. Sure, eating donuts for lunch had been a tempting thought in his teenage years - rebellious notions against the lovingly crafted and insufferably healthy sandwiches Alfred packed for school every day. But at a certain point a man has to realize his metabolism needs vegetables. Dick had enjoyed his Boston creme and been well satisfied. The rest of the men were splitting a baker’s dozen.

No one seemed inclined to answer Dick's question. Kyle and Ronnie shot each other sly grins. Hank tried and failed to hold back a cough, spewing donut spittle across the table. Any temptation Dick had to grab a second donut shriveled.

Officer Blake snapped the lid back on his coffee cup and course-corrected Dick's attempt at conversation-making. “Did you boys hear who the Chief’s got lined up for the open detective spot?”

Ronnie licked chocolate icing off a finger. “Finally your time, eh, Jeff?”

“No,” Hank shook his head, choking down the rest of his mouthful to be the first to deliver the news. “It’s Rohrbach,” he declared, nodding sagely while ripping off another piece of donut.

Kyle snorted. “That bitch?”

Ronnie looked wide-eyed at Blake. “Thought you were a shoo-in for that, man.”

Blake licked his lips, pausing momentarily in his assault on a jelly-filled. “Chief’s got some idea there’s not enough girls getting promotions.”

“It’s the mayor,” muttered Hank while he rummaged in the box for another chocolate donut. “Her and her anti-male crusade.”

Dick had all sorts of things to add to this conversation, but he bit his tongue. He wasn’t here to explain the legality and, in fact, necessity of affirmative action policies. Dick was here to nod along and keep his information sources on his side. Blowing his shot at making nice with these guys wouldn’t help the mayor shape up the force. That’s what was most important.

“Rohrbach’s a bitch,” Kyle repeated, apparently intent that everyone heard.

Dick grit his teeth, willing his expression to remain neutral. Amy Rohrbach was young for a detective promotion, but she was smart, tough, and professional. She’d be great for the role.

Ronnie punched Kyle’s shoulder. “Sure. That’s why you’ve asked her out a dozen times.”

“Hey,” Kyle shrugged. “She’s a mean bitch, but she’s hot.” To that, Hank nodded into his coffee.

“Chief just wants to cop a look every time she comes in to report.” Blake waved his half-donut. “I should grow some of those.” He cupped a hand under his chest and winked, as though it was at all unclear what he was talking about. The rest of the boys erupted in laughter. And that, Dick couldn’t bring himself to do. Instead, he pretended to take a long swig of coffee.

Unfortunately, Blake noticed. “S’wrong, Dickie?”

Dick chewed the inside of his cheek, debating how far he would let this go. It was _sort of_ like being undercover, this lunch, this conversation. But it was also Dick's _job_. His day-to-day life. Amy wasn't just some rival gang schmuck he could trash talk to win brownie points. She was his co-worker. He might work a case with her someday. 

Trying to keep his voice light, Dick dipped his toe in the water. “It's wrong to talk about a colleague like that.”

Blake narrowed his eyes at Dick. But before he could make a reply, Ronnie shoved an elbow into Dick’s chest. “Wrong? You think she’s ugly?” The rest of the table thought that was very funny.

“No,” Dick protested into the laughter. “No, I just-”

“Probably hasn’t noticed one way or the other,” Blake offered, shooting the boys a knowing smirk.

Ronnie’s eyes got big, looking like he wanted to break out laughing again. Hank studied Dick’s face closely, wrinkling his nose in disgust.

It took Kyle a few moments more, but once he picked up on Blake’s meaning, he wasn’t one to put it down subtly. “Ohh, you a queer, newbie?”

“It’s chill, man,” offered Ronnie, though he sidled a bit farther from Dick on the bench. “It’s don’t ask, don’t tell around here.”

Hank looked like he’d swallowed a sour grape. “Speak for yourself.”

“Hey fellas, hey.” Blake clapped a meaty hand on Hank’s shoulder. “We gotta have each others’ backs ‘round here, don’t we?” He gave Dick a look that, if not for the powdered sugar clinging to his lips, would have been a little too serious. “We come across sensitive information, we don’t go spreading it.”

Dick was sure he was imagining the double meaning in that sentiment. The alternative was acknowledging that his ulterior motives were suspected by a man who’d lost his cell phone in a pretzel bag.

“Homosexuality is a sin,” Hank proclaimed. “You’re going to hell, young man.”

Dick stood. “I’ve got some paperwork I should get back to.”

“See you at the station,” said Blake, gaze piercing.

***

The end of Dick’s shift was within spitting distance when he ran into Amy Rohrbach in the hallway near the evidence room. “Hey! Amy!” He took quick strides to match her pace, intending to congratulate her on the pending promotion.

She didn’t so much as glance up from the files in her arms. “Fuck you, Officer Grayson.”

Dick stopped short, sufficiently surprised to let escape, “What? Why?”

Amy spun on a heel, closing her folder and hugging it to her chest. “You think I don’t see the group chat?”

Dick blinked, letting his confusion show. He’d been added to whatever private group message Blake ran, but he’d muted it weeks ago, for obvious reasons.

Amy stepped into his personal space, clearly not convinced of Dick’s innocence. “Look, I know how Blake and his gang carry on,” she hissed, “but you’re just a rookie. I’ll report you to the fucking city if it happens again.” She stomped into the evidence room, leaving Dick standing stunned in the empty hallway.

With some trepidation, he pulled his phone out of his pocket to check the group chat.

He found it without much scrolling: a picture. Of him. They’d cropped one of Ronnie’s selfies to a close-up of Dick in the background, shoving his Boston creme in his mouth, custard on his nose. “Rookie giving a demonstration how he’d handle ms. whorebach,” read the caption, with a winky face.

Dick closed his phone, heart racing in anger. He debated heading upstairs to deck Blake then and there. This was _not him_ , this was so not him. Those creeps thought they could pin their sexist jokes on him? He had nothing to do with it. Dick wanted to stomp up to Blake’s desk and wring his neck until he deleted the photo.

But he couldn’t do that. He needed to wait, to take him down proper. He needed to be patient. He needed evidence.

Maybe he’d underestimated Blake. Maybe this was actually a brilliant move--lumping Dick in with the group, making it harder to rat them out. It certainly wasn't going to look good for him if he tried to tell the chief about their lunchtime "locker room talk."

It was frustrating. Dick joined the force to clean it up. But to the innocent observer, to Amy, for all intents and purposes, he was part of the mess.

The sooner he could build a case against these guys, the better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's? hard?? to write blatant sexism??? how do men brains do the thing
> 
> Also: Dick's a Lucky Charms man don't @ me


	3. Security

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At last, for once, finally, Dick saves the day.
> 
> ...or not.
> 
> [No warnings on this chapter, y'all! Just some super mild, canon-typical violence.]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to plot. Do enjoy your stay.

It was sunset over Blüdhaven: soft orange sky, hushed streets, and gentle breeze blowing in off the sea.

An incongruous setting for a million-dollar arms deal.

Dick was standing guard at the gated entrance to the shipyard, as ordered. Nearly an hour had passed since the feds had arrived in their armored truck to load up the goods for transfer. How long did it take to fill a truck with state-of-the-art, military-grade machinery? The pizza rolls in Dick’s freezer were calling his name.

But Dick remained alert while he watched the clouds turn pink. It was a job, after all, and an important one. While trying to get into the Chief’s good graces, he couldn’t let anything go wrong.

It didn’t help that Dick had been paired with Joey Resner for this job, a short, pink-faced man who spent most of his time behind a desk. Joey looked decidedly nervous, nibbling on his thumbnail while he waited on the opposite side of the gate.

“You all right?” Dick felt a little bad. He hadn’t officially cleared Joey off his list of potential dirty cops, but his rate of fingernail depletion seemed a promising sign the man wouldn’t stomach mob operations.

Joey’s head jerked up from his hand to meet Dick’s eye. “Why wouldn’t I be all right? Nothing’s going to happen.” As if realizing for the first time what he’d been doing to his fingers, Joey balled his hands into fists and shoved them in his pockets. He kicked a stone. “Why do you think Chief Henken sent us two?”

That sort of stung. But, of course, to Joey, Dick was just a rookie. The Chief, too, had no reason to suspect Dick was anything but green. Joey was probably right to guess that they’d been deployed because the Chief couldn’t find any higher officers willing to stand by a gate for an hour with zero chance of seeing action.

“We’d handle things, if something went down,” Dick joked. Though the only untrue part was the “we.”

Joey gave a strained chuckle in a Mariah Carey octave. “I sure hope not.”

The sun had sunk below the horizon when an engine finally rumbled within the compound. The road flooded with light from a pair of headlights. Dutifully, Dick and Joey heaved the gate aside. The armored truck trundled slowly through the narrow opening.

“Drive safe!” Joey called from the other side of the truck.

Dick nodded at the driver, who raised a gloved hand in farewell.

And something...wasn’t right.

In the moment, Dick couldn’t quite say what it was, beyond a feeling. But he’d learned years ago to trust those rushes of gut instinct.

“Hold up.” Dick stepped partially into the vehicle’s path to block its progress, squinting into the headlights, which - were those on brights? “Can I see your badge?”

“You checked it on the way in,” grunted the driver. And so he had, which was why Dick could be pretty sure that was not the voice of the man with whom he’d made small talk an hour prior.

Dick stepped around the front of the truck to the driver side window, the man inside keeping his chin ducked.

Before Dick could get a hand on the handle, tires screeched and the truck tore out of the gate.

For a half-second, Dick and Joey stared at each other, taking a moment to let wash over them the reality that _those were not the feds_.

“Secure the interior!” Dick commanded him, pointing back through the gate even as he broke into a sprint after the truck.

They didn’t need to "secure the interior." The only important thing in there was now in the exterior and moving at rapid speed. But Joey seemed more than relieved to comply with any idea that carried him away from the action.

Worked for Dick too. It probably wasn’t a normal, non-vigilante cop move to run down an armored truck, but it was dark and this part of town was empty and Dick was tired of showing up to this job every day and just _watching_ bad stuff happen.

He drew his gun as he ran. It felt foreign in his fingers, though of course he’d completed the firearms training for the job. He wasn’t aiming at a human, he told himself. But Bruce’s anti-gun lessons echoed dully in his head: _when a gun’s involved, nothing good happens. It’s just a matter of how bad_.

The back tire blew out with a single shot. Dick took aim at the second, just to be safe.

The truck swerved, sparks flying, and slowed down just enough for Dick to launch himself at the vehicle. He clutched the handles of the cargo doors as the vehicle accelerated, lurching along on its maimed tires. Dick grit his teeth and pressed up against the doors, desperately missing his Nightwing toys.

Wind roaring in his ears, Dick maneuvered his hands so he could grasp the top of the truck. He sidled along the back until he could peer around at the passenger side. The air whipping past sent his bangs flying and his eyes watering.

Over the metal scrape of the broken tires and the rushing wind, Dick heard yelling from the cockpit. The passenger window rolled down and a head poked out. It was Slim Sangrino, one of Moretti’s men. Dick dared halving his grip to give a cheeky wave.

At the sight of the cop clinging to his getaway car, Slim’s face twisted in anger and ducked back inside. Dick was pretty sure the next time it emerged it would be accompanied by something capable of shooting at unwanted cargo. So he sprung into action, dragging himself up onto the truck’s roof. Staying belly down so as not to fly off and become roadkill, he shimmied to the front of the truck.

When Slim’s head appeared again, it was met by Dick’s foot.

Slim went limp, head hanging out the window, pistol falling from his hand to the highway. Dick took that as an invite, swinging himself feet-first through the passenger window.

The driver wasn’t as unprepared as Dick had hoped. While Dick’s heels clipped him in the chin, he got off a shot with a pistol of his own. Adrenaline sidelining any worry about whether he was hit, Dick wrapped both hands around the one with the gun, trying to twist it from the man’s grip or at least get the barrel pointed not at Dick’s head. The driver took his left hand off the steering wheel to throw a wild punch. The truck listed, slamming into the highway divider. And yet Moretti’s man did not think to take his foot off the gas. The scream of metal-on-metal split the night.

Cramped spaces were not Dick’s favorite fighting arenas. Especially spaces moving at high speeds. So he made it quick. A knee to the driver’s inner elbow, forcing him to release the gun. An elbow to the man’s temple. And Dick was able to grab the steering wheel, right the vehicle’s path as it slowed to a stop.

Dick took a minute to breathe, still sitting basically in Slim’s lap. He patted the unconscious man’s thigh. That was the most fun he’d had in a month.

As the ringing in his ears faded, he heard the sirens. A dozen police cars were blocking the road 100 feet ahead, lights flashing.

“Come out of the vehicle with your hands up,” blared the voice of Amy Rohrbach.

Dick fixed his windswept hair in the rearview mirror. Then he slid gingerly across the unmoving driver to unlatch the door. As his boots hit the road, he raised his hands, noting with a wince that his upper left arm cursed him out at the movement.

Amy lowered the gun she’d had pointed at the truck. “... _Dick_?”

Dick squinted into the red and blue lights. “Hey, Detective.” He glanced over at the pair of bodies sprawled in the front seats. “I don’t think they’re coming out.” He gestured to the truck with a thumb. “They’re pretty unconscious.”

Best Dick could tell in the backlighting, Amy was somewhere between incredulous and furious.

A flash of white light assaulted Dick’s eyes, followed by the telltale click of a camera. He allowed a moment of gratitude that he’d thought to fix his hair.

“Officer, did you commandeer an armored truck manned by two operatives...by yourself?”

Dick dropped his arms and grinned, despite the burn that - _yep_ \- was definitely signaling shallow bullet wound, at least. “Nothing that impressive,” he offered to the eager reporter. “Just doing my job.”

***

A few hours later, bandage wrapped around the graze in his arm, Dick couldn’t resist paying a visit to the main Moretti warehouse to see the impact of his interference. A sad Moretti face or two would give him strength to make it to Friday. Remind him why he showed up to the station every morning.

In full Nightwing regalia, it was simple to sneak through a broken window into the warehouse. Dick snaked through the back offices toward the loading bay, sticking to the shadows. It wasn’t terribly necessary to be so careful, because the building was filled with noise: banging and shouting. Sad banging, Dick hoped. Sad, disappointed shouting about how many of their nefarious plots had been thwarted by a boy in blue today.

Dick peered around a corner into the loading bay. And he saw a dozen men in motion, unloading heavy duty weaponry from an armored truck.

Wait, what?

Dick was pretty sure he stopped that truck. No, Dick was _quite_ sure he’d prevented those weapons from reaching this warehouse.

Voices drifted toward his hiding spot, forcing Dick to duck back into the shadows.

“Not sure about you using that rookie to make me look bad.”

That voice, Dick knew. It belonged to Boss Moretti, the man himself. Paying a midnight visit to a warehouse? Dick must’ve really found the party tonight.

“He’s not making you look bad, Sal. He’s making _us_ look _good_.”

Dick’s breath caught in his chest. Because that - that was the wheedly baritone of the BPD’s own Chief Hencken. What was the Chief doing having a late night chat with _Sal Moretti_?

“I prefer the people know who their cops serve,” growled Moretti.

“They know.”

Dick bit his tongue to rein in the dark thoughts. The BPD’s head honcho was re-pledging his allegiance to the top of Blüdhaven organized crime, and Dick was a whole fool.

“We’re just trying to keep our federal funding,” Hencken placated. “This way, the DA can safely keep her nose out, too.”

“He better stay out of our way.” Moretti’s tone was menacing. There was a click as he opened an office door.

“Hey, the operation went off like we planned. The decoy would’ve been stopped at the blockade anyway. Joey got the second truck off no problem.”

Dick’s shut his eyes, grimacing. _Joey the desk guy_ was in on it, and Dick was an idiot and a half.

“No problem?” Moretti slammed the door shut. Dick could picture him getting up into Hencken’s space. Honestly, it was a testament to just how deep the partnership went that Hencken dared challenge the man as much as he had. “You’re not listening. Your _rookie_ took out _two_ of my guys. Now I’m paying for concussion treatment.”

“Come on, Sal, it was a fluke. Your men were sloppy. Letting Grayson play the good guy benefits both of us more than it costs.”

Dick curled his hands into fists.

“The moment that stops being true,” came Moretti’s growl, “ _I’m_ involved.”

There was a moment, a beat of silence, in which Dick harbored an inane hope Hencken might stick up for him.

“Fine. Easy. Things get too messy, he’s all yours.”

In the morning, Sal Moretti would wonder who left the fist-sized cracks in his office wall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, friends!!


	4. Morality

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jason Todd comes to town. What ensues is...moral philosophy?
> 
> Warnings: here’s where the violence tag comes in...though it’s not really that graphic. Lots of swearing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everything costs. 
> 
> N.A.S.A., Tom Waits, & Kool Keith - Spacious Thoughts

It was 4:37pm, and Dick was not impressed.

He’d responded to a report of rabid raccoons knocking over trash cans in the warehouse district - itself not the pinnacle of exciting police work. But turned out the only pest rummaging around the Moretti warehouse was wearing a shiny red helmet.

Red Hood was crouching to peer through a window in the back of the building. He didn’t so much as shift when Dick approached. 

Dick folded his arms, deciding not to bother with pleasantries. “What are you doing breaking into a Moretti facility in the middle of the afternoon?”

The man didn’t flinch. He shrugged, not turning from the window. “Hey, I don’t have a job.”

“Jason.”

Jason straightened, cracking his neck. He sauntered away from the window, clapping a hand on Dick’s shoulder as he passed. Dick remembered again just how strange it felt being shorter than his little brother. “The goods are being transferred tonight,” came his answer, distorted through the helmet. “I wanted to take them off Moretti’s hands  _ before _ that.”

Dick watched while Jason laid his arsenal on the concrete, checking each gun was loaded before sliding it into his belt. His movements were systematic, practiced. Largely the reason Bruce overlooked Dick’s own defection to the ranks of the firearm-wielders. Since becoming Red Hood, Jason was  _ lots _ more liberal with bullets than was Dick.

“You moved in now because you knew I was on shift.” It was obvious, at least, that Jason had been trying to attract attention. Unless tipping over trash bins was the new hobby he’d decided on to appease his therapist. Dick was not amused. His shift was over in a little more than an hour. Certainly vigilante activities could’ve waited until then.

Jason clipped in his last piece and stood. “Yeah, well, it’s the least you can do, since it’s your fault these goons have all this firepower.”

His brother wasn’t one to mince words on a good day, but Dick felt that accusation like a slap to the face. Like he wasn’t kicking himself for playing into Chief Hencken’s double-cross last week. Like he wasn’t working nights trying to find a way to fix things.

Dick dug his nails into his palms, choosing to ignore the insult. “What are you doing in Blüd?”

Instead of responding, Jason threw an elbow into the window, glass clattering off his helmet. Then he swung his legs over the sill.

Dick watched him slide into the building, thinking vaguely that he’d just witnessed a burglary without attempting to prevent it. Not that it was worth picking a fight with Jason over a broken window. He stood on the concrete, watching the darkness within, hands clenching and unclenching, fighting the instinct to follow. Dick knew the specs of a BPD officer in full uniform getting caught sneaking around Moretti property. If he was smart, he should hightail it to the other side of the city and let Jason get on with whatever he was planning.

A red helmet appeared in the window. “It’s chill,” crackled Jason’s voice. He tossed and caught a metal gadget, holding it to the light so Dick could see. “Portable EMP. Cameras are out.”

Dick crossed his arms, more than irritated by his brother’s bravado. “What makes you think I’d follow you?”

“I saw your press conference,” Jason said. And he turned into the shadows.

Stupid little brothers. Dick knew exactly what Jason was doing, well aware of the buttons being pressed, but, well, what works works.

“That wasn’t  _ my _ conference,” he protested. But Jason was out of sight. “Hey! That wasn’t -” Dick paused to curse under his breath while he scrambled through the broken window. “I didn’t arrange that interview.” And he hadn’t enjoyed it, either, standing there smiling under the bright lights, knowing full well everything out of his mouth was fodder for the enemy.

“No, Hencken did.” Jason was kneeling by a railing. He motioned for Dick to join him, and Dick hated that he did, sliding into a crouch beside him. Jason tapped his helmet, no doubt switching through settings. “You know they’re playing you. Using you as cover for all the shi-”

“I  _ know _ .” Dick wasn’t in the mood. Had his brother really come up to Blüdhaven just to pile on?

Jason turned his head toward Dick, and though his face wasn’t visible through the helmet, Dick could feel the scathing look all the same. “I don’t think you do,” snapped Jason, while his fingers began unclipping the straps from one of his pistols. “You wanna know why I came up here to do your job? Because it’s fucking with mine.” Jason unhooked the gun and cocked it. “Since your little ‘clean up Blüd’ crusade started getting traction in the press, these guys have been upping their attacks in Gotham. They’re pissed, trying to discourage the GPD from getting any ideas.” He flicked off the safety. “You’re making shit worse.”

At the sound of voices, Hood tensed and returned his attention to the warehouse floor below. A group of Moretti men were moving across the room toward a red shipping crate.  One of the men opened the door, and Dick caught a glimpse of movement from inside. The Morettis barked orders, brandishing their guns. Then they produced a small figure from the midst of their group, shoving them into the crate.

Dick’s heart stuck in his throat. “Jason, that’s-” He ground his teeth, trying to control the rush of emotion as the Moretti guards closed the crate, blocking his view of the inside. “They’re  _ kids _ .”

Jason remained kneeling, staring toward the crate. “Yup.” His fingers were tight on his gun.

And, nope, not this time. The Red Hood show would not go on. Not in a situation this serious. Not when the potential collateral damage of a shootout was the lives of  _ children _ . Dick pulled out his radio. “I’m calling this in.”

Jason moved fast, swiping at the radio and knocking it to the floor. “Are you a fucking dumbass? Your boys in blue want to  _ facilitate  _ this deal, not shut it down.”

With a glare, Dick went for the discarded radio. Jason gripped his wrist, tight, to halt its progress. For a moment, they paused there, a stalemate.

“If it were 1:00am,” Jason growled, “and you were wearing a different color uniform, would you have any hesitation jumping in there and taking out those guys with me?”

Dick licked his lips, staring down the expressionless helmet. “I’m not wearing that uniform.” _ Of course _ Nightwing would act. Of course  _ Dick _ would act, in any kind of normal situation. But this wasn’t normal. This was complex. The consequences of Dick swinging down there to take out Moretti men without notifying the station...well, it would jeopardize  _ everything _ .

“Just cover me from the sidelines. I’ll take full credit.” Jason maintained his grasp of Dick’s wrist, clearly sensing his indecision. “Or would you rather sit back and wait ‘til it gets dark, letting those poor kids tremble in fear, hoping they’re still here by the time you’ve enjoyed a nice dinner and managed to wriggle into your suit-”

“Fine.” Dick couldn’t think about it any further. The other options were intolerable. He wouldn’t leave the warehouse without those kids. And Jason would no doubt dole out a concussion to his big brother rather than let him call in reinforcements. Like it or not, he was part of Jason’s scheme now. Best he could do was make sure things didn’t get too out of hand.

The Red Hood leapt to the warehouse floor, landing square on the shoulders of one of the men. The air exploded with gunfire.

Dick clung to the shadows, keeping an eye on the edges of the fray while he made his way carefully toward the shipping crate holding the captives. When one Moretti guy snuck toward a stockpile of particularly menacing weaponry, Dick shot him in the leg.

When he glanced at Jason, Hood had a guy in a chokehold, using him as a human shield. Dick stopped watching after that. He knew Jason’s methods were...blunt. Priority number one was the kids.

Dick broke the lock on the shipping crate in seconds, praying Jason had drawn the Moretti mob’s attention to some distant corner of the warehouse. He opened the door to the crate quickly, slipping inside and closing the door most of the way behind him, just in case. The popping of gunshots was still constant.

Dick flicked on his flashlight, shining it at the ceiling to fill the crate with dull light. There were maybe a dozen kids, none older than about 13, all huddled at the back of the box, as far away as possible from Dick.

“It’s okay,” he said, just loud enough to be heard over the chaos. He pulled out his badge from his pocket. “I’m a police officer.”

If anything, that information seemed to make the group cower further. Some whimpered in fear.

“I’m here to help you,” Dick explained, slightly bewildered that he had to. “If you follow me, I can get you out of here safely.”

The kids looked at each other, faces puffed from prolonged tears, visible even in the low light. Dick’s heart twisted.

A few of the older ones detached themselves from the huddle and stepped cautiously toward Dick.

“That’s it,” he whispered. “Stick close.”

While the group gathered nervously around him, Dick chanced a peek into the warehouse. Jason was in a brawl with a burly Moretti employee on the far side of the floor. As long as they were quick and quiet, making it out of the warehouse was doable.

Dick ducked back into the box to check that his ducklings were ready to move. And most of them were, standing loosely around Dick, chewing thumbnails. But one teen was still glued to the back wall of the crate.

“Are you ready?” Dick asked them.

They hugged their chest. “I’m not going anywhere with you.”

Dick let out an exasperated breath. Was he really so untrustworthy, that this youngster would rather take their chances with mafia traffickers? “Well, you can’t stay here.”

Light flooded into the crate as the door was yanked open from the outside. Dick was already grabbing shirts, getting ready to throw the kids behind him, when he realized the assailant was the Red Hood.

“What are you doing?” asked Jason gruffly. “You’re supposed to be getting them out of here.”

The kids stared at him in terror. Dark helmet, arsenal of firearms, jacket covered in blood - yes, these kids were going to be having Red Hood-themed nightmares for a while.

Dick pressed his mouth into a disapproving frown. “Is it clear?”

By way of answer, Jason tugged the door open wider and gestured behind him to the spread of Moretti bodies littering the floor.

“Okay.” Dick forced his tone to remain calm as he covered the eyes of the nearest ten-year-olds. He motioned for the group to exit the crate. “Let’s go.”

The young ones began to file out of the crate, blinking in the harsh overhead lights. Dick pointed them toward the entrance, kneeling to block as much of the carnage as he could.

“What’s your deal?”

Dick looked up to see Jason addressing the teen, who still hadn’t moved from the back of the box.

“Not coming.” They shook their head.

Dick pushed into his toes to stand. “I think they’ve had some bad run-ins with the police,” he elucidated.

At that, Jason laughed, a harsh, gravelly thing through his helmet. “Go on, kid.” He threw out an arm and pressed it into Dick’s chest, forcing him to back up several steps. “Get out of here.” He jerked his helmet toward the entrance.

Glaring at Dick with a health dose of suspicion, the young person slunk from the crate. Once clear of their prison, they broke into a run for the door.

Kids clear at least from the crime scene, Dick took a moment to pivot on his heels and take in the damage his brother had wrought. Moretti’s men were laid out across the warehouse floor, some unmoving, some writhing and groaning. Puddles of blood stained the concrete.

“Jesus, Jason,” Dick breathed.

Jason snapped his pieces back into his belt. “So I might’ve got a tad overzealous with the trigger. They were  _ selling kids _ .”

“For which they should’ve been prosecuted in a court of law.”

“Please.” Jason pulled off his helmet and shook out his hair. Dick’s eyes caught, as they always did, on the streak of white. The visible reminder of what his little brother had been through. A reminder of how he had changed.

New, also, was the scorn in Jason’s green eyes as he glared down at Dick. “Just because you have the  _ law _ doesn’t mean you have the moral high ground here, Goldie.”

Dick started to protest. “I’m not-”

“Allow me to demonstrate.” Jason cut him off, stalking over to the nearest Moretti body with his helmet under one arm. “I see this guy. Trafficker. I think he deserves to die. So I shoot him in the head.” Jason placed his boot to the prone man’s cheek, rolling his head so Dick could see the eyes, unseeing. “You see him. Same guy. Think he doesn’t deserve to die. So you lock him up in a torture box to live out the rest of his days alone.” Jason shrugged. “Real clear who the humanitarians are here.”

Dick fought down the angry beat of his heart, keeping his gaze resolutely on Jason and not the dead man at his feet. “That’s a total false equivalency.”

“I didn’t  _ say _ they were equivalent.” Jason strode back toward Dick. “You know, I used to look up to you. But anyone wearing that badge-” he shoved at Dick’s chest, hard, “-has given up all rights to tell me how to live my fucking life.”

Jason shoved his helmet back over his head. “Get your head out of your ass.”

The Red Hood turned and thumped out of the warehouse, leaving Dick alone with a mess impossible to explain to his superiors and a gaggle of terrified children waiting outside.

Worse yet was the mess he’d created within his own family.

***

7:45am, and Dick was not in the mood.

It had been a long evening, sirens sounding a BPD response seconds after Jason made his retreat from the warehouse. So Dick had fled, hopping in his car and driving to the other side of the city. After clocking in the end of his shift, he’d been forced to spend several hours hacking the station’s system to wipe the GPS data recorded from his car. Then a long night of dealing with a restless Blüdhaven crime scene that was not at all phased by the appearance of Nightwing, since they’d been anxiously anticipating a ruthless Red Hood.

The blackest coffee could not prepare Dick for a first-thing-in-the-morning desk visit by Officer Jefferson Blake.

“Ay Grayson,” the man blared as he approached. “You hear about those kids that got rescued?” Blake collapsed into a rolling chair from the next desk over and wheeled it until he was basically leaning on Dick’s shoulder.

Dick rubbed at his temples, taking a moment to calibrate his response. “I think I saw it on the news.” He took a long drag of coffee. “The Red Hood, right?”

Blake picked up a pen from Dick’s desk and began clicking it. “Well, one of ‘em says it was a cop that rescued them.”

Dick’s mouth was dry. But he raised his eyebrows in a pitch-perfect imitation of faint interest. “One of the kids said that?”

“Mhm.” Blake doodled a crude penis on Dick’s desk while he spoke. “But Chief says none of our guys called it in.”

Dick gripped his coffee cup tight. “Maybe the kids were scared. Mistook the Hood for one of us.”

“Mm, maybe.” Blake finished his drawing and tossed the pen onto the desk. “Well, anyway.” He stood, bringing a hand down on Dick’s shoulder. “Just thought you might like to know. By the way, better keep an eye out for more missing persons reports.” Ostensibly to fix Dick’s collar, Blake leaned in close, his voice low. “Moretti likes to make up what he’s lost  _ with interest _ .”

Once Blake was gone, Dick used his spit to rub off the drawing, focusing on the task to keep from crying.

It was too early for this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pls I am not advocating for murder murder is bad pls my son...my son Jason he just gets a little extreme in making a point sometimes. The point is good. Murder is bad. 
> 
> This has been a PSA.
> 
> [So sorry for the wait on this chapter. My excuse is…...living in the US right now.]


	5. Amy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jason thinks “good cop” is an oxymoron. But Dick knows Amy Rohrbach, so that can’t be true.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: This chapter describes an encounter between the police and a person experiencing a mental health crisis. Also some blood/injury.

Detective Amy Rohrbach was a star. Since her promotion, the BPD was closing a dozen cases a week, undoubtedly to the chagrin of the Moretti clan. Chief Hencken’s congratulations at the daily briefings were sounding increasingly forced.

So when Amy had offered Dick a stint as her backup for the day, he’d jumped at the chance. Not only would it get him off the traffic ticket beat, but even sweeter - a day off from dealing with Blake and the boys.

Currently, they were on the road, driving to the next town over to follow up with the relative of a murder suspect. Dick was excited to observe Amy’s interviewing skills. Though he’d grown up under the tutelage of The World’s Greatest Detective, he figured it would be useful to learn interrogation techniques that didn’t involve broken noses. If the number of suspects she’d booked was anything to go by, Amy was more than capable. There was no one at the station he’d rather shadow.

Of course, there was the elephant in the car.

In the silence that filled the drive, Dick kept his eyes out the window, worrying his lip and tapping a nervous pattern on his thigh. Was he imagining the tension? Maybe she’d forgotten. It had been two months, after all. He’d had several encounters with Amy since the groupchat incident. Those had been cordial, far as Dick could tell.

On the other hand, what were the odds someone as sharp as Amy forgave and forgot targeted donut-based sexual harassment?

Dick decided he’d rather not spend the day dancing on pinheads. “Look.” He cleared his throat, keeping his eyes glued to the road ahead. “About the picture.”

“It wasn’t posed.”

Dick glanced to the detective in surprise.

She smirked over the steering wheel. “Ronnie told me.”

Dick gaped, floundering for words. Amy _knew_ , and she had been letting him sit there like a kid in the lobby of the principal’s office? Had she known _before_ , watching with glee as the tips of Dick’s ears turned red every time he passed her in the hallway? “When did he tell you?”

“Couple of days after it happened.” Amy’s brows raised while she watched the road, as if reading Dick’s thoughts. “You want an apology?”

Dick shook his head to himself, biting back a smile. He thought, not for the first time, that Amy Rohrbach would fit in nicely with the band of stubborn, spandexed idiots with whom he spent vigilante hours.

“No,” Dick said sincerely. “If anything, _I_ should apologize.” He winced, thinking back to the lunch. “I let those guys take things way too far.”

“I get it.” Amy tapped her fingernails on the steering wheel, expression grim. “This job is about survival. We do what it takes.”

Dick nodded vaguely, grateful for the understanding, but puzzled by the wording. The job wasn’t really about survival to Dick, besides needing a paycheck to keep a roof over his head. Metaphorically, he decided. Blake’s crew _was_ rather like a pack of sharks. Surviving station banter required treading the water carefully.

Amy glanced at Dick then, probing his silence with a searching look. “You know, I’ve been talking to the Chief about you. He said he’s thinking about promoting you next cycle.”

That should’ve been good news. No more parking tickets and speed traps. If he believed that Hencken would actually go through with it. If, in that case, it wasn’t somehow part of the Moretti master plan. If--Dick surprised himself with the thought--if he actually _wanted_ a promotion. Wanted to move up in the system, entrench himself in the job. What Jason would say...

Amy was waiting for some kind of answer, but Dick didn’t quite have the words. “Oh...wow,” he stumbled. “That’s-”

“You and me, Grayson.” Amy’s face was hard, eyes shining with determination. “If we work our way up,” she pinned him with a look, “the two of us, we can change things.” She pulled her gaze back to the road. “That’s what you want, isn’t it?”

The GPS ordered a left turn, sparing Dick, for the moment, from confronting the unexpected conflict of emotions. _Yes_ , he wanted to change things. This offer had no business making his stomach churn.

They pulled into a complex of old, brick apartment buildings. Once the car was stopped along the curb, Amy undid her seatbelt, patted her hands along her belt to check her arsenal was strapped in, and popped open the door. Dick did the same, but he left his belt on the floor of the car. They were here to talk with a 35-year-old restaurant hostess. He couldn’t think why they might need a taser.

Amy stood with hands on her hips as he unfolded from the car. “Your uniform?”

Dick instinctively went to check his buttons were done up, but Amy was eyeing the discarded belt.

“Ah.” Dick slunk reluctantly back into the passenger seat, trying to pass it off like he’d simply forgotten. “You think we need it?”

“You never know when you might need to defend yourself.”

Dick frowned as he clipped the belt around his waist, remembering how he used to carry his utility belt in his pocket because _never leave home without it_ , Bruce had chanted. Once he moved out of the manor, he’d decided to dump that rule, to reject his guardian’s paranoia. Because Dick _knows_ how to read a situation. He can feel tension as it ratchets high, the moment things go south. He knows that most people he meets on the beat are harmless and afraid.

“I haven’t needed to yet,” Dick objected lowly, shifting the weight of the firearms on his hips.

Amy’s expression was both frustration and concern, the look Dick’s eighth grade science teacher had given his deskmate every time he insisted the Earth was flat. “It’s shoot or get shot in this job, Grayson.” She turned on a heel and strode toward the building’s entrance. “I don’t want you to learn that the hard way.”

Dick hung behind Amy as they ascended the stairs, dimly lit and gray, but clean. When they reached apartment 2E, the detective rapped her knuckles on the door, left hand hovering near her taser. “Ms. Haynes? It’s the police. Open up.”

From beyond the door, there was a crash, and a scream.

Dick shared a worried look with Amy. He felt his heart rate spiking. Were they interrupting an assault?

“Ms. Haynes?” Amy knocked on the door again. The only answer was a pained yelp.

Dick placed a hand on Amy’s shoulder to guide her out of the way. There was no way he was letting this door stand between him and someone who clearly needed help. “Ms. Haynes, we’re coming in,” he called. One hand on his gun, he kicked the heel of his boot into the handle. The door burst inward.

The shriek that followed lit up Dick’s fight-or-flight instincts, making him tense with the anticipation of an attack.

But there was no assault; there was no threat. There was only a woman, jeans drenched in water, scrambling backward on all fours through the remains of a broken vase.

Immediately, Dick lifted his hands. “I’m so sorry.” He scanned the rest of the apartment, a cozy space filled with succulents and rugs: there was no one else in the room. “I’m so sorry,” he repeated to the woman on the floor, who was now crying, with hitching breaths.

“Analina Haynes, I presume.” Amy stepped past Dick into the apartment, and he was alarmed to see that she’d actually unclipped her gun, holding it low with both hands while she surveyed the scene. “It’s all right. We don’t want to hurt you.”

A lovely sentiment, Dick thought, from someone _not_ brandishing a deadly weapon. He stepped cautiously forward and placed his hand to the barrel of Amy’s gun, pushing it down. He met the irritation that flashed in her eyes with a steady gaze.

“Please, please, I don’t know where my brother is.” The woman on the floor had raised a hand as if to shield her face, and Dick was alarmed to see it was red, dripping with blood. “I don’t know where Reggie is. I don’t know anything.”

“We know where Reggie is,” said Amy. “He’s in police custody.”

Analina gasped. “No,” she breathed, no louder than a whisper.

Amy tapped a foot. “Ms. Haynes, maybe if you could get off the ground.”

Dick’s attention was fixed on Analina’s eyes, wide as teacups and streaming with tears. Her chest was jumping, uneven, like she was struggling to breathe. Her face was streaked with blood where she’d wiped at her eyes.

Slowly, maintaining eye contact, Dick bent his knees, released Amy’s gun, and lowered himself to the floor. The water from the broken vase began to seep into his pants.

Ms. Haynes watched with obvious confusion, while Dick looked up at Amy expectantly.

She rolled her eyes. “I’m not doing that.”

“Could you give us a minute, then?” Dick’s voice was soft.

His partner stared down at him for several seconds, and Dick saw it seep into her eyes: the realization, the conclusion that he was not the hard, steely cop she’d hoped for, not the apprentice who would march beside her into a new BPD order.

With a huff, she stalked into the stairway.

Dick gave it a few seconds while Amy’s footsteps faded, pulling his legs into a cross-legged seat. Then he asked, simply, “Are you okay?”

Analina shook her head, still sobbing. Her hands were shaking violently. “Please, I swear I don’t know anything.”

“Forget about that for now.” Dick’s chest was filled with lead watching the damage he’d wreaked upon the woman. He forced his fingers to relax on his knees, voice to remain even. “Did you knock over the vase when you heard us at the door?” It seemed obvious enough, but Dick wanted to rule out any possibility of abusers hiding in coat closets.

Analina rolled her eyes, but nodded. For the first time, she took her eyes off Dick, hair falling across her face as she curled around her injured hand.

“I broke a vase one time when I was younger,” Dick offered. It had actually been a priceless porcelain bust, but that seemed like an unhelpful detail. “Unfortunately, I was still of grounding age. Had to do all the dusting for a month.” Throughout an ancient million-dollar mansion and under the close supervision of the most meticulous butler in the game, he didn’t add.

Analina didn’t raise her head. She was rocking back and forth, but her voice, when she spoke, was stronger. “Get out, please get out.”

Dick chewed his lip. “I need to make sure you’re okay.” It was the least he could do, responsible as he was for creating this mess. Resisting the urge to crawl forward, he asked gently, “Can I see your hand?”

Analina raised her chin. Dick held carefully still in his seat on the floor while she studied him. Apparently deciding he meant it, she began to unfold.

“Hey, Ms. Haynes? I got you an ambulance.”

Dick whipped around to see Amy standing in the doorway, gesturing down the stairs behind her with a thumb.

“What?” Analina sounded horrified. “I can’t afford an ambulance.”

Dick gave Amy a burning look, feeling a bit betrayed.

Amy shrugged at him. “She’s bleeding.” Then she stalked past him into the apartment, crunching over the broken glass to wrap her hands around Analina’s upper arm.

“Please, I can’t be committed again,” Analina pleaded while Amy guided her up and out the door. “There’s no one to take care of my cat!”

Dick got to his feet and watched Amy walk her down the stairs, Analina’s sobs returning full force.

Something cracked under his boot, drawing his attention to the floor. It was a mess, broken glass mixed with water tinged red, already soaking into a nearby rug. Dick considered grabbing a couple of towels to mop up.

“Grayson!” came Amy’s voice from the bottom of the stairwell. “Let’s move.”

***

The ride back to the station was a different kind of tense. Dick was angry. Berating himself for kicking in the door, for giving into the ‘this-job-is-about-survival’ mentality. Angry with Amy for not feeling the same level of guilt.

“We did the right thing,” she said, sensing the uneasiness of his silence.

Dick said nothing, jaw clenched, watching the sidewalk race by.

“Hey.” Amy jostled his arm with an elbow. “You a doctor now? She needs professional help. And now she’s getting it.”

At some level, Dick knew Amy was right. The hand, at least, would require stitches. But after? Analina said she couldn’t afford an ambulance trip - what about a hospital bill? And, thanks to Dick, she now had a broken door to fix. Possible water damage to her flooring. And a cat without a caretaker.

Dick squeezed his hands together in his lap and muttered the only certainty in his brain. “It doesn’t feel right.”

Amy’s side-glance was understanding, sympathetic. She pursed her lips as she turned back to the road. “You of all people should know that doing the right thing doesn’t always feel right.”

Dick swallowed, nodded. But privately, he thought that maybe it should.

And though it wouldn’t be _right_ , legally, to sneak through a back window into Analina’s apartment later that night to repair a door handle and put out some cat food, it sure felt it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [“You brought your utility belt?”  
> “Never leave home without it. First thing Batman taught me.”  
> “Right after don’t go to the bathroom without it.”
> 
> RIP Wally West. A real one.]


	6. +1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At a community protest against police violence, Dick finally does some soul-searching CBA and makes a choice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: police shooting and violence. Slurs and swear words. Cringey dramatic endings.
> 
> Thank you so much everyone for stopping by, leaving kudos, comments, etc. I’ve had a lot of fun writing this piece. I’ll keep practicing and keep improving!
> 
> Much love <3
> 
> -ABM

Hank Herzog shot a kid.

A 19-year-old, fleeing through a convenience store parking lot. Hank unloaded seven bullets. Five had pierced the back of Elijah Mullens.

He’d stolen two candy bars. Combined value: $4.50.

The news got out fast, and Chief Hencken had summoned all available officers to the station that evening to “maintain the peace.” Which is what he’d called it, but, Dick thought as he was handed a riot shield, baton, and helmet, it felt a lot more like going to war.

Blake stood before the outfitted officers, giving a pep talk about how “the city was out to get them tonight” and “the most important thing is to stick together and have each other’s backs,” banging his baton on his shield for emphasis. Dick stood silent, feeling queasy as his peers began to yell and clamor, fired up by Blake’s words.

“For Hank!” Blake roared. “For Hank!” echoed the room. And Dick was full-on sick to his stomach now, imagining the protestors yelling “for Elijah” and wondering how exactly he’d ended up on the wrong side of a tragedy that was shaping up to be a battle.

One hour later, Dick was ignoring the sweat rolling down his forehead, standing shoulder to shoulder in a line of officers in the yellow lamplight of a closed down road. Beyond the clear, military-grade plastic of his shield, he could see the protest: a sea of people dressed in black, lifting signs and chanting. Some hugged others while they wept. A group somewhere in the middle was singing. Some turned to the line of cops and yelled profanities, yelled their pain. Dick heard the angry mutters of his colleagues and prayed none would step out of the line. 

Every instinct of every muscle in his body was itching to leave. But Dick had seen the images of the protests in Gotham a few weeks prior, of fire and broken glass and bleeding foreheads. He had to stay, to protect these people if that kind of violence broke out here.

It started with an empty plastic water bottle. The object flew out of the crowd like someone had kicked it, rolling to a stop against Dick’s shoe.

For an instant, there was quiet. Dick nudged the bottle with a boot. Then:

“THEY’RE THROWING SHIT!” shouted the man next to Dick.

The line surged forward, the world erupting into noise and movement. Dick was swept along with the momentum of his fellow officers as they fell on the crowd of protesters. There was screaming, sobbing, shouting. The dull thuds of batons meeting flesh. From somewhere down the line, Dick heard the pop of gunfire.

For a moment, he stood, surrounded by the chaos, shield and baton limp at his sides. His brain unable to comprehend the speed with which the peaceful street had become a massacre. Bodies on all sides, running, falling, writhing.

“Stop! Let go of her!” screamed a young voice at Dick’s shoulder. A teenager with a backpack was clawing at an officer dragging a woman by her hair toward the police vans. By the stature of the man and violence of the motion, Dick could tell it was Blake doing the dragging.

And something in him snapped.

Dick didn’t quite comprehend what he was doing until Blake’s wrist was twisted in his hand and the girl was scrambling back into the embrace of her friend.

Through the tint of his helmet, Jefferson Blake served Dick a ferocious glare. “What are you doing, Grayson.”

Dick returned the glare full-force. His fingers remained wrapped tight around Blake’s arm. “We’re supposed to be protecting them.”

“You haven’t been fucking listening.” Blake yanked his wrist from Dick’s grip and shoved a palm into his chest, forcing Dick to stumble backward. “While you’re out here with us,” he growled, “you’re out here _for_ us.”

It was in that moment, boots heavy on asphalt, orange lamplight mixing with flickering red and blue, smoke and tear gas clogging the air, staring down the dark helmet of his superior officer, that it clicked.

Dick didn’t say a word. Didn’t need a word. He simply reached for the badge pinned to his chest and ripped it from the fabric, tossed it to Blake’s feet.

The man bared his teeth beneath the visor. “That’s it, huh? Abandon your family soon as it gets tough?”

Dick let the shield and baton drop. He pulled the helmet off his head and let that, too, fall to the pavement as he turned away from Blake, toward the fray.

“I knew it from the start! Fucking g*psy faggot!” Blake called after him.

But Dick wasn’t listening. He was catching the arm of Kyle, as it came down upon the head of an elderly black man. He was throwing himself over a blue-haired woman before Ronnie’s baton could smash into her ribs. He was pulling a teenager from Hencken’s grasp, pushing him toward his friends. He was burning, sobbing from the tear gas, from the memories of all he’d harmed. He was letting each blow of his former colleagues’ batons serve as penance for a life he’d impacted. 

But for the first time in months, Dick felt absolutely clear-headed, calm conviction. Losing the badge had banished a weight from his shoulders, lifted the veil from his eyes.

He could, finally, protect and serve.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> good cops quit.


End file.
